


You Need to Understand

by littlemissvincentvega



Series: Vince's Princess ♥ [29]
Category: Pulp Fiction (1994)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23955850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemissvincentvega/pseuds/littlemissvincentvega
Summary: 'hii, how are you? I’m so happy your requests are opes now, this is my first time requesting anything so idk but i really wanted something with Vincent or Mr orange, where him and the reader have an argument about their job and how dangerous it is and they’re worried. I hope you have a nice day byee' - requested by anon on tumblr 💖
Relationships: Vincent Vega/You
Series: Vince's Princess ♥ [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1315475
Kudos: 3





	You Need to Understand

You stand there, arms folded across your chest. “You’re seriously not gonna even have a conversation with me about this?”

Vincent continues to tie his tie in the mirror, not once looking at you. Not even through the reflection. In fact, it didn’t even seem like he was listening to you. “I’m cool with a conversation, but I know how this shit goes. It won’t _be_ a conversation. It’ll be you layin’ into me and whinin’ about this & that.”

Feeling yourself well up, you press your trembling lips together. Still, he doesn’t even give you so much as a glance.

“You want to eat? You want to be able to live comfortably?” he goes on, fumbling about with his tie, neck craned forward. “You gotta accept that I have to go out and work.”

Your folded arms go a little limp and you feel your heart sink, like it’s a balloon and someone is slowly sucking the air from it. Deflating you. “Okay,” you reply, voice barely louder than a whisper. 

Satisfied with his tie, Vincent shrugs on his black work jacket and runs a hand through his greasy hair. He turns around, just about to ask you how he looks, and clocks you. Shit. The man was sometimes just so oblivious to how his words affected other people, and he was so used to bickering with Jules that more often than not his attitude wasn’t great in times like these. “Baby,” he sighs, stepping over to you. The second he’d realised you were upset it was like a wave of sheepishness had taken over; he walked with his tail between his legs. “C’mere.” 

You let him wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a secure hug, and he presses a long kiss to the top of your head. “Listen; I’m sorry,” he says quietly, resting his chin atop your head. “I’m real sorry, honeybunch. It’s-- I just can get a little... overwhelmed. There ain’t a lot I can do about my job, y’know?”

You nod, face pressed against his chest.

“I know it’s ‘cause you care... I appreciate it. You know that?”

Another nod, and you sniffle back a few tears. “It’s hard on both of us.”

“That’s what she said, baby.”

You reach up and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to hold back a smile. He was a literal man-child. Watery eyes half-lidded, you look up at him. “You know what I mean, asshead.”

He studies your features. “Sure I do.”

“Just... be serious for a second,” you tell him, taking his tie in your hands and fumbling about with it. “I’m just so scared that something-- you know.” Gaze rises to meet his baby blues. “In case something happens to you and I--”

“--lose me?” He finishes your sentence for you, his own features soft & vulnerable (which was a lot for him, he wasn’t like that with anyone else). “Baby, listen here. You ain’t gonna lose me, a’right? And if you do, at my funeral you can say ‘I told you so’. How’s ‘at sound?”

“Don’t talk about your funeral, Jesus Christ. I don’t wanna think about that,” you sigh, prodding him in the chest. “Just _please_ make sure you find a phonebox and give me a few calls? I really don’t wanna sit here and make myself sick with worry like last time. Vince, please.”

The hitman holds your gaze for a few moments, sincerity in his eyes. “I will.” He checks his watch and hums, “Shit-- I’m gonna be late. Alright, baby, I gotta run. I’ll see you tonight, okay? I _promise._ One hit for Marsellus, then I gotta take his lady out in the evenin’. But I’ll be back, I promise.” His voice is soft, and he brings a warm hand to your cheek, brushes his thumb across it. “I love you, okay?”

“I love you too.”


End file.
